Strategic Distractions
by AlaskanFan
Summary: One day with Lee Stetson demonstrating various methods and motives for distraction.


One day with Lee Stetson demonstrating various methods and motives for distraction.

Set in Spring of Season 1 - PG-13

Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon Enterprises own these wonderful characters. All I get from writing about them is the pleasure of visiting Lee and Amanda from time to time.

 **Strategic Distractions** by AlaskanFan

Pushing Amanda King's buttons was as much fun as flirting in Steno, and far easier. The objective in Steno was to keep the women vying for his affections – not crying for his blood. It was not an easy goal and he had to be in top diplomatic form to keep them all charmed. Teasing Amanda took almost no effort at all.

Today had started boringly quiet. He had wrapped up one large case and several small ones, and the paperwork required for each one made a tall stack on his desk. Luckily, Amanda was working today to help him plow through the documentation. She was like an honors student working diligently to maintain top grades. She stayed on task and took pride in doing her work well. It was simple to get her started and then slip down to Steno to while away an hour. Billy had called twice looking for him, and Lee was wary of pushing his boss's patience too far. He had returned to the bullpen and pestered Amanda while she worked. He knew the work would get done faster if he would just let her do her job, but it wouldn't be nearly as much fun. He had worked hard all week and was ready to play. He had gone outside for lunch and spent an extra hour enjoying the sunshine and hints of Spring. The day somehow unraveled after lunch.

Duffy was a good agent, careful and thorough. He had been working for weeks on a case involving guns and drugs and blackmail. He had finally convinced his informant to meet with him in person, and the recognition sequence involved a pink umbrella and a large blue purse. When Melissa Bartlett had called in late due to a car accident, that was no problem. However, when the agent called again at lunch time to say she couldn't come in at all, it was too late to cancel the meet with the informant, so now Duffy had a problem. He needed a woman to carry the umbrella and the purse, and he needed another agent for backup. When Duffy described the situation, Lee jumped at the chance to get both of them out of the office. Amanda could run the recognition sequence, and Lee could provide agent back-up. It should have been a cake walk.

Duffy was keeping an eye on the street disguised as a street cleaner. There were various shops and boutiques lining both sides of the street with a nominal but steady flow of people enjoying the weather and shopping. Lee was positioned on the opposite side of the street near the other end of the block with a clipboard apparently taking a survey. It was almost magical how that clipboard made people avert their eyes and swerve to avoid him. The informant was a little man, nervously smoking and flinching at shadows – stooped and balding with salt-and-pepper hair too thin to be a convincing comb-over. Amanda recognized his face from the photo Duffy had showed her and followed her instructions. As he passed Lee's position near the corner, Amanda exited the book store right in front of him, the pink umbrella and large blue purse properly displayed. She walked in Duffy's direction, paused at the bus stop to study the schedule and used her finger to identify a bus route and expected arrival time. She then crossed the street towards Duffy and entered the coffee shop near the end of the block. The little man saw the umbrella and purse immediately, noticed the route number indicated and followed Amanda across the street. Simple.

Suddenly the quiet Spring day erupted into chaos. A motorcycle roared down the street and the informant was shot before he reached the steps to the coffee shop. Lee had dropped the clipboard and started running towards Duffy as soon as he saw the glint of gun metal in the motorcyclist's hand. He saw Duffy spin and fall as the gunman fired a second and third time. The motorcycle turned right into a service alley. Lee knew the alley was long and narrow but had no outlet, so he charged to its opening. As he passed Duffy, Lee saw Amanda running out of the coffee shop and down its steps. He pointed to the downed agent and shouted to her, "Check Duffy." Lee halted beside the alley and peeked past the edge of the building. The motorcycle driver had turned his machine and was gaining speed to exit the dead end. The revving engine noise reverberated in the narrow space. The driver used one hand to steer his bike, while his other hand aimed the gun and fired twice at Lee. Lee fired once and then pulled back into cover. The grinding sound of metal against concrete was echoed in Lee's teeth and bones as the motorcycle crashed. Lee glanced back to see that Amanda was tending Duffy, and eased into the alley to check on the gunman.

Lee's bullet had grazed the man's skull and the impact with pavement, bricks, glass and metal in the alley's debris had caused numerous cuts and abrasions on his face and arms. It was obvious that the crash had broken the guy's neck. Lee checked the dead man's pockets for identification and flipped open his wallet. The driver's license photo and information revealed this to be Ron Geminez – known by the Agency as a low level thug in the drug network That's when the day turned into a nightmare. Facing the driver's license was a recent family photo showing this man, a woman, and two young school-aged boys. The boys shared their dad's blond hair and wide mouth. One shared dad's cleft chin. The other had several missing teeth. Lee was blindsided by the realization that whatever this man had done to deserve death, those two children did not deserve the grief of learning that dad was never coming home again. He could barely breathe as the tide of loss washed over him. He braced his hands on his knees and gulped air, struggling to control his emotions. Both of Lee's parents had died when he was barely old enough to remember them. Knowing that his bullet had caused such a loss for someone – even worse, _two_ someones – was devastating. The emotional ambush surged like a tidal wave in Lee's chest and Lee knew he had to overcome it decisively before the emotions could take him down. The grief was suffocating – a tightening band around his lungs. Ruthlessly, he fought his way free of the emotions and found refuge in professional detachment. He exited the alley and was relieved to find that Amanda was still occupied with Duffy.

Duffy was laying on the ground but he was gesturing and talking, so Lee guessed he wasn't seriously injured. As Lee drew closer, he could hear that they were arguing over whether Duffy could get up or not. Having been under Amanda's care before, Lee smiled slightly to hear her bossing someone else for a change. Lee sent Amanda back into the cafe to retrieve the umbrella and purse while he reported to Duffy, who was now standing. He then sent her down the street to pick up the clipboard he had dropped – anything to keep her occupied. Sirens were approaching and various emergency vehicles arrived quickly. The bustle of emergency personnel reinforced his stoic barriers. A primary objective was to keep Amanda out of that alley, both literally and figuratively. She was no stranger to death, and this one wasn't particularly gruesome despite the amount of blood. The danger to Lee was that she would want to talk about it, and he had no intention of discussing that man's death with her today. He hoped to distract her, but if distraction didn't work, he'd resort to being rude. The EMT checked out Duffy and determined that he didn't need emergency room treatment. The bullet had barely grazed his upper arm. He had lost his balance on some loose pavement and hit his head as he fell. As soon as Duffy could take charge of the scene, Lee drove Amanda back to the Agency.

Lee's plan was to keep Amanda off-balance enough to not ask questions about his involvement in today's operation. The easiest way to do that was to fire questions at her about her actions. As soon as Amanda fastened her seat belt, Lee was ready. "Where does it say in the Trailblazer's Official First Aid Manual that you should drown the victim before bandaging his wound?"

"Lee, you _know_ I had to wash that head wound to prevent infection. I was lucky that someone from the cafe was willing to bring me a cup of warm water and a cup of ice. I used the warm water to wash the head wound and the arm wound – Lee, did you know that the bullet grazed Duffy's right shoulder? His car is manual transmission, right? He'll have a problem with changing gears until his shoulder heals. - and then I used several tissues and Duffy's tie to apply direct pressure to the gun wound. You know, you have to stop the bleeding after you've cleansed the wound. I had to apply pressure to his head where he hit it against the trash bin and grazed a bad spot on his forehead just above his left eye. That's going to leave a terrible knot, maybe even blacken his eye, and I used the empty plastic wrapper for the tissues to hold the ice against his wound to slow the swelling." Lee barely listened as he prepared his next two questions, determined to keep her focused on Duffy and not the alley. He had benefited from Amanda's first aid efforts several times and was confident that she had provided good care for Duffy. Taking pot shots at the Junior Trailblazers was a sure way to bring out the flash of passion in her eyes. She was ticking off on her fingers a list of sterile items that could be used when applying pressure to a wound. Then she segued into the proper method of tying a tourniquet – not too loose and not too tight. Clearly, she had plenty of experience teaching first aid to kids. She was slowing, and he couldn't risk letting her ask questions, so he launched the next question interrupting her instructions.

"So, if someone has a neck wound, do you tie a tourniquet to stop the bleeding?"

"That is _ridiculous_ , Lee," she huffed. "Of course, you don't use a tourniquet on someone's neck." She was off and running on various issues regarding neck wounds. She gestured as she talked – punctuating her explanation with her hands. The pucker at the corner of Lee's mouth showed how hard he was working to conceal his grin. He turned his head away from her as he felt the grin winning. It was entertaining to bait her. Only another 2 or 3 minutes to go, depending on traffic lights, and he would have her back to the Agency and safely out of his car. He interrupted again. Controlling the conversation was imperative.

"What part of your instructions led you to believe that you should come running out of that coffee shop when the shooting started?"

"What? Surely you didn't expect me to sit in there enjoying my coffee while Duffy bled to death on the sidewalk! What kind of person would do that?" Her eyes were sizzling with indignation. The remainder of the ride was finished while she defended her actions. Folks in the bullpen would have described Amanda as pleasant, even-tempered and polite. Lee enjoyed needling her. Whether defending the Junior Trailblazers, demonstrating loyalty, or displaying extreme bravery then collapsing in relief – it was her repertoire of emotion that fascinated him. Intelligence agents learned to minimize emotions, and Amanda could control her emotions in the field. But in daily life, she expressed deep emotion with an ease that Lee found refreshing. Lee heaved a huge sigh of relief as Amanda entered the building to debrief her part in today's debacle. Lee returned to the scene of the shooting to assist as necessary in wrapping up the details and bringing Duffy back to the Agency.

Lee was debriefed while Duffy received follow-up care in the Agency clinic, and then wrote his report while Duffy debriefed. Since it was Duffy's case, Lee's report was short and Duffy's debrief was long which left Lee with time on his hands. He began regretting his offer to drive Duffy home. His report had been as concise as he could make it, but a gun shot wound and a dead man required adequate explanations. It was true that the bullet did not kill Geminez, but it was also true that the motorcycle probably would not have been wrecked if the driver had not been injured by the bullet. It was the crash that caused the broken neck, but the crash was caused by the bullet. The murder weapon had been retrieved from the alley and ballistics tests would verify that Geminez killed Duffy's informant, wounded Duffy and shot at Lee, so Lee's returning fire was justified. Lee's report had included the dead man's name and injuries, but he did not include any information about the photo in the wallet. He was having a hard time not thinking about those little boys whose dad would not be coming home tonight or ever. He wondered whether the family would be told about the bullet, or if the crease on the left side of the skull would be passed off as just another injury from the crash. Lee felt like he was suffocating and again he quenched the emotional volcano before it could erupt. As a young boy, he had lived with his uncle who did not tolerate tears. When he first arrived in his uncle's quarters, Lee had muffled his crying in his pillow for weeks often falling asleep with his face covered by the pillow. He awoke night after night gasping for breath and learned to associate suffocation with controlled emotions.

Every agent was trained to deal with the traumas of their profession and the agency had a variety of psychologists and counselors to help process difficult events. Killing someone in the line of duty was never easy, but Lee had a lifetime of experience in compartmentalizing strong emotions. His Achille's heal was any death that affected children. He knew that today's death would require strong, intentional effort, and he marshaled his resources to meet the need.

His method of dealing with overwhelming emotions was to trample them with an even greater amount of physical exertion and sensation. He worked at it like an artist – passionately. And he honed the tools like a master of his art. In this case, his primary tool was his little black book. Those names, phone numbers and detailed notes allowed him to select companionship for any occasion. Did he wish laughter? He could call women who were witty. Did he wish elegance? There were several women available for a fine evening on the town. Despite his disdain for documentation at work, his black book was a model of organizational detail.

As he waited and waited for Duffy, Lee began considering what type of woman he wanted for this evening. He knew the trauma of seeing that photo called for drastic measures. Those two little faces would be hard to forget. Tonight was not a night for conversation – certainly not. It was a night for wild abandon – a night in which thought would be silenced by physical stimulation of every kind. He imagined flipping the pages of his current black book looking for women who met that description. At such short notice, he might have to call two or three women before finding one available. His thoughts about the various women were sidetracked by thoughts on how to improve the usefulness of his little black book. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on his desk. His pen beat a cadence on his leg as he pursued this new idea.

He actually had three books now, and each was an improvement over its predecessor. He felt that he was re-inventing the black book and wished that someone had given him pointers years ago about how to develop a contact list that was truly useful. Thinking about passing on the wisdom of his experience, he started imagining a presentation on the little black book as a dating tool for young men. He smirked as he thought of presenting his wisdom to Amanda's Junior Trailblazers.

"Men, we have here Exhibit A. This is a basic approach to the little black book. You'll see that there are marked spaces for name, address and phone number. In Exhibit A, my first black book, the contacts were alphabetized by last name. I quickly found that to be a significant problem because I often didn't learn the woman's last name when I first met her. Thus, some entries were listed by last names and some by first names, and some people were entered twice causing my book to fill up too quickly."

"Now I am holding Exhibit B. This is a somewhat improved version in which all contacts are filed by first name. You'll notice in this book I started keeping details about how I met the lady and any subsequent dates. That is a very important feature which was useful to have introduced so early in my dating career and I gladly pass on to you the benefit of my experience." He couldn't imagine telling ten-year-olds about the rating system indicated by the number of stars beside each name, so he decided to skip that part in his presentation.

At this point, Lee started imagining a merit badge for little black books. Maybe the boys would have to submit a book with a minimum of 10 entries of females they've just met to earn their badges - or maybe only 5 entries. After all, they were only kids and not able to drive yet. Lee chuckled to think of black books submitted with the names of school crossing guards and grocery store cashiers. He'd have to remember to talk to Amanda about it during their next stake out. He could just hear her arguments against such a silly idea and see her blushes as his suggestions skirted the limits of her modesty. Ever since she voiced her concerns that people might think she was "having a thing" with him, he had been amused by her sense of propriety. Teasing her was one of his favorite ways to pass the time when they were alone.

For Exhibit C, his third black book, he surely needed an older audience, so he shifted the scenario to a freshmen class of Agency recruits– males only. "With Exhibit C, I expanded each entry to two full slots. In the first slot, I entered the expected contact information. In the next slot, I have extensive codes as to my cover profession; identifying information for the woman such as hair color or dress color and where we met; the lady's, uh...abilities and interests in bed; and other specific details about restaurants, movies, gifts, and galas. This is a notable improvement over the simplistic one-star, two-star, three-star rating system used in Exhibit B."

"In any profession, dating co-workers raises certain concerns, but for us it solves a myriad of problems. Our co-workers already know what I do for a living so I don't have to invent or remember a cover story. Additionally, I don't have to explain why I have so many scars; actually, the scars can help build a hero image if you use them right. Plus, the ladies from Steno are usually understanding when we're interrupted by emergency calls from the office." Lee was aware that tales of interrupted dates were standard fare in office gossip and he was careful to "make it up" to any lady whose evening was cut short due to work obligations.

"A word of warning about cover stories: be careful what you choose as your cover. One brilliant agent actually claimed to be a cellist. That's not too bad if the lady knows nothing about classical music. It becomes a problem if she introduces you to her friend who is a music professor. It becomes a disaster if you are interrupted by a professional emergency. Neither lady will understand your hasty exit because you have to give an emergency cello lesson at 2:00 in the morning." Cellist was definitely his worst cover story ever. At least it was good for laughs.

"I am excited today about a revolutionary development in black book organization. This idea is so new that I don't even have a prototype ready to show you. Imagine, if you will, the video rental store. There are sections for comedy, romance, action, horror, and so forth. As you enter the store, you know the type of movie you want and you don't have to wander the aisles searching every movie title in alphabetical order. The emerging trend in black book organization is similar. Say, you want a wild and lusty evening. You no longer have to scan page after page of contact names looking for those women labeled "Wild and Lusty". You simply turn to the designated section and you can see the dozen names who fit the mood for the evening. Or perhaps you're ready for a classy, romantic evening. Again, turn to the appropriate section and take your pick. Of course, you might have a few ladies who fit more than one category, and it's perfectly acceptable to cross-reference as needed." As Lee imagined giving this speech, he was more firmly convinced that his next little black book would follow that design. The only challenges would be devising enough distinct categories, transferring the data from his old books into the new one, and properly categorizing each lady.

He chuckled heartily as he imaged asking Amanda to help with the project. He could set her up by saying that he really needed help organizing his contacts and that she was the _only_ one he could ask. Then, he'd let her know that it was a personal project, not business. Then, he'd hesitate and look away doubtfully until she eagerly assured him that she wanted to help. Finally, he'd describe reorganizing his "contact list" by category, and only at the end would he make it clear that the "contact list" was his black book. He chuckled again thinking of her possible responses. Of course, he'd never actually discuss any names with her and certainly never show her his books, but there was great potential in using it as a topic of discussion. He was actually looking forward to their next stake out – hours of uninterrupted time, spiced with teasing and innuendo. He could ask her opinion about various category titles and definitions. Stake outs with Amanda were rarely boring. Even when it was dim, her behavior indicated when he succeeded in making her blush. He was vaguely aware that her modesty fueled his protective instincts towards her. Even as she proved her resourcefulness and gained experience, his need to protect her innocence increased. He wanted to preserve her ability to trust people and her natural optimism. He knew plenty of jaded and calloused women. Amanda's kindness was like an oasis for him, and he was determined to protect her psyche as much as he protected her body.

Conversely, her kindness was also threatening to him. On Monday, she would type his report on this case, and she would be concerned for him as she learned how Geminez died. That kindness would undermine his effort to stay detached, if he let it. That gave him more than 60 hours to bury the emotions permanently. By then, he would have his professional facade so firmly in place that even Amanda wouldn't guess that he had omitted anything. The photo had nothing to do with the case, and he had no intention of discussing it with anyone – ever. Those two children's lives would be changed forever based on the actions of this afternoon, but they had no place in his report. Merely imagining her concern sabotaged his defenses and the emotional tidal wave surged to suffocate him again. He clawed his way to an icy calm and reviewed his strategy to crush these memories.

He would start by closing the file and trapping all thoughts of the case inside the folder with his notes. Then he would lock the folder in a desk drawer and walk to the elevator. He would leave the locked desk buried deep below ground as the elevator rose to street level. He would walk through the foyer where vigilant guardians limited access to people with passwords and permissions. And he would emerge unburdened into the company of the uninitiated.

He would turn all of his attention to a wild and lusty evening with someone unfamiliar with his work. (Hmm...maybe Monique still has that loin cloth with the matching leopard print negligee.) At this hour, they could skip dinner and just meet for drinks before going to her place. Tomorrow, he planned to exhaust himself at the gym and then run as far has he could so that his body's exhaustion would consume his attention. Perhaps by tomorrow night, he would be ready for laughter – side-splitting laughter that would serve as an emotional release. Dana had a wickedly funny sense of humor. Maybe he could take her to the new comedy club and then end the night together. If that went as he hoped, Dana would keep him busy most of Sunday, too. By Sunday night, he might be in the mood for a little adventure and he could call the new girl in Steno. After all, he has to date someone at least once to know how to categorize her for his new black book.

He had dozens of ways to distract himself, and he would do whatever was necessary to keep breathing.

The end


End file.
